


a different kind of hangover

by circus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:58:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/circus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He shouldn’t have died, he looked just like you, he reminded me of you, I shouldn’t have let that happen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	a different kind of hangover

A little way inside Dad’s bedroom, he saw Dean, the diary in his hands. There was no expression on his face. Blank. Green eyes fixed on a crack on the opposite wall, hands on the book, fingering the ends of the pages. But something was wrong with Dean’s face. It was… too blank to be called blank. It was a force-shutdown-brain-now-rendered-useless blank expression. It was because of the hunt.

 

Sam took a step in the room. Crunch. Who the hell left cracker crumbs on the carpet? What kind of thing was that to do? Dean jerked up. “Hey, Sammy.” A small smile. A small forcefully forgetful smile.

“No.”

But Dean’s face had rearranged, now. Bravado screaming reign over his entire existence once more. He raised an amused eyebrow. “No? What no?” his elder brother drawled, closing the book quietly and placing it on the side table.

“Don’t do that, Dean.”

“Stop yakking like an old lady and get to the point, Sammy, ‘cause I think that’ll help,” Dean smiled. Sarcasm came to him like making honey came to bees.

“You know what I’m talking about, Dean,” Sam muttered, shuffling further into the room. “I want you to quit faking.”

“Okay. Let’s recap this, uh huh? Like in the TV shows. Rego the important moments. So - I’m thinking of things, you come in, keep on telling me to stop, I ask what I should stop, and you have this assumption that I know what you’re talking about, when I really don’t.”

 _Dammit, trying to evade the point_ , Sam sighed to himself. _Well alright, ninny, tell him what you mean, and don’t get your throat all lumped. Again._

“The hunt - ” he started.

”- Is currently being dealt with Dad, and excellently at that. That’s all there is to say.” Another quick, tight smile. Dean hopped off the bed and walked out the room, shoving past Sam. “Oh and you’ll want to vacuum those crumbs, ma’am,” he called over his shoulder.

Sam turned around, nostrils flared. “I want you to stop acting as if nothing, happened on your last hunt.” **Slam**.

“ _I’m not acting as if nothing happened_ ,” was Dean’s yelled reply.

Sam’s shoulders sagged.

—-

“Dean.”

“Look if this is about - “

 ”Time for dinner, Dean, stop trying to fix the TV.”

 ”I’m not _trying_ to fix it, I’m _fixing_ it.”

“Ah, superiority complex. Get on with it. I made spaghetti.”

“In the microwave.”

“Shut up, twerp.”

“Atta bitch.”

“Look, just _eat._ ”

“No - hey, what’s your doing? Back off! _Stop_ it!”

Sam had taken hold of Dean’s collar and was pulling him into the kitchen. “Dude - !”

“You’re having dinner.”

“I’m not hungry. Get your hands _off._ ”

Sam grinned to himself. Dean could win a fight against him anytime. If he really wanted Sam to leave him, he would have successfully Sam’s ass by now.

“Alright, nannykins, here you are.” Sam bustled around, clanking pans and spatuals professionally. Dean sighed and stared at him. _How does he do it? I fucking touch a bowl and it breaks. And Sammy… Sammy can actually cook stuff._ He shook his head in wonder.

Beloved Sammy was also wondering. _What really happened? What was so awful about the monster that Dean insists on being so… dead? How did the kid die?_ **BEEP!** The microwave butted in.

“What was I doing?” Sam mumbled, suddenly, confused.

“You were going to pour the boiling water down your neck,” Dean rejoined.

“Oh yeah, of course,” Sam nodded, and did so.

“WHAT THE HELL, DEAN, WHY DID YOU SAY THAT, WHAT THE HELL, OH FUCKING JESUS CHRIST WHAT WAS YOUR PROBLEM, DEAN. DEAN DEAN I’M DYING.”

The reprimands didn’t work. Dean was gleefully roaring over Sam’s absence of mind, slapping the table like a long-lost friend.

Sam gave up. Silently mopping his pink, boiled face with a wet towel, he shrugged his shoulders. At least he seems lightened up.

“Okay, Dean - ” Sam turned around, and stopped dead. Dean was sitting at the table, yes. He looked normal, no. “Dean?” a scared whisper.

“He was… there? You know? And Dad and I - ” here Dean’s voice cracked. Sam walked over and sat on the floor, next to his big brother’s chair. He looked up into those world-worn eyes of jade, and kept quiet.

“I don’t really remember the fight, much. But I promised myself I’d save the kid, Sammy. I _promised_. But… it didn’t work. Dad got grazed and he’s not as young as he was… he slowed down, I had to cover for both of us. All our ammo was gone and we were just hidden behind a tree, waiting for some brilliant plant to hit Dad like a revelation… and it **did** hit Dad. And it was supposed to save us _all_ , Sammy.” Dean was staring straight ahead again, jaw clenched. His hands were furiously digging up Sam’s hair, searching frantically for some shred of comfort, of untruth. Of something that would take it all away. “But it didn’t save us all. Those kids… they were barely 5 years old. Their Mum was already _dead_ and - ” Dean stopped. And the four year old looked just like you, Sammy, the rest of the sentence screamed in his head, but he wouldn’t say it, couldn’t let his younger brother know.

Sam stood up. Dean started, and stared at him, eyes scared. “It’s alright Dean - okay so it isn’t. What I mean to say is…” Sam quit all attempt of talking and shoved a spoonful of spaghetti down his brother’s throat. “MmmsgwanooSammyimnogaaah!” Dean mumbled as Sam first shut his mouth and forced him to swallow, then opened it for another bite. It was a messy process, but in half an hour, Dean’s bowl was emptied and Sam was smiling with fierce satisfaction at Dean’s sulky expression. “I am _not_ a baby,” he muttered.

“Sure.”

—-

“Oh Sammy.”

“It’s alright, Dean. It’s perfectly fine. I just didn’t figure you’d hate my cooking that much,” Sam chuckled, weakly.

“No no,” Dean slurred. “Zbageddiawazzgrid.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam nodded, patting Dean’s shoulder. It was sort of uncomfortable, being squashed in a tiny guest toilet (why were guestroom toilets always so tiny?) with a full-grown nineteen year old man on his knees, throwing up with his head half-way down the toilet bowl.

“It’s just that, Sammy…” Dean sighed, wiping his mouth on his extremely-wiped sleeve.

“Hmm?”

“That kid… he was four years old.”

Sam hung his head. _How was he going to help his elder brother over this one?_

“He was just four, Sammy. Four year old boys are _not_ supposed to be eaten alive after watching their _younger brothers and sisters_ being eaten alive. That’s not supposed to fucking happen, Sammy. We were supposed to _kill_ that sonofabitch before he ate any more kids, but we failed. We _failed_ , Sammy, and five little children died because of that. This is not supposed to _happen_ , Sammy.”

“I know, Dean, I know.”

“And he had thsee really pretty brown-blue eyes, Sammy, just like - ” Dean’s voice shook.

“Just like Mum’s,” Sam whispered quietly.

  _No, Sammy. Like yours. He had eyes like yours. He shouldn’t have died, he looked just like you, he reminded me of you, I shouldn’t have let that happen._  

 ”Yeah, like hers,” Dean lied.

There was silence then, just the ticking of the clock and the occasional bird’s wings fluttering past the small window high up the wall.

 ”Alright, Dean, come on. I have to flush this thing,” Sam stroked Dean’s hair. Dean closed his eyes for a second, revelling how it felt - like magic floating on his dull throbbing head. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled.

 ”Go to bed. I’ll get some hot cocoa in a bit.”

 ”Seriously, Sammy, you should just go be a nanny.”


End file.
